The Eighteenth Day
by dragonflybeach
Summary: The reason why Dean stayed with John instead of following Sam to Stanford. Trigger Warning: suicide attempt.


It took seventeen nights for Dean to realize Sam wasn't coming back.

For the first ten days, Dean made sure that for any meals they ate at home or whatever motel they were temporarily calling home, there was enough food for Sam when he showed up.

For the first twelve days, Dean insisted that wherever they stayed had to have enough room for Sammy when he came back.

For the first fifteen nights, Dean put an extra blanket on the foot of his bed for when Sam got there, because Sam always stole the covers.

For the first sixteen days, Dean carried his .45 and Sam's 9mm on him at all times, because Sammy would need his gun when he came back.

For those first seventeen days Dean checked his phone for calls or missed calls so often he ran the battery dead about every eight hours.

On the morning of the eighteenth day, Dean checked his phone upon waking.

There was no message.

Dean called Pastor Jim and Bobby, as he did every morning, and as they did every morning, both told him no, they hadn't heard from Sam.

Dean opened up that portable computer he had bought three days after Sam left, and as he did every morning, he checked the Palo Alto, California local news for any mentions of anything unusual.

Afterward, he did something different. He took two pieces of black cloth from the bottom of his duffle bag, carefully wrapped Sam's gun in them, and stowed the bundle in the trunk of the Impala.

"I'll be back." He said, standing in the doorway looking out. "Call me if anything comes up."

Not the words he had repeated every time he left John's sight for the past two and a half weeks.

_Call me when Sammy gets here._

What was left of John's heart broke as the door slammed behind his oldest son.

He knew what those two pieces of black cloth had been. Their matching AC/DC shirts. The shirts that had been worn until they were faded and holey and much too tight in Sam's case. Dean wore his in homage to the band. Sam wore his because he worshipped his big brother.

And Sam had left his behind, when he left eighteen days ago.

Unlike the time Sam left when he was 15, he made no attempt to hide where he was going. Dean had the address of the dorm and Sam's new cell phone number within hours.

Unlike the time Sam left when he was 15, Dean wasn't frantically searching, hadn't dragged Sam back while threatening to kill him if he ever frightened Dean like that again and hadn't practically handcuffed himself to Sam for a week afterwards.

Unlike the time Sam left when he was 15, Dean wasn't blaming himself. He hadn't mentioned fault at all, even though they both knew who bore the failure for Sam leaving this time, as well as the first time.

It wasn't Dean.

Dean had done everything possible to care for his little brother since the moment John placed baby Sam in his arms That Night.

Dean had gone hungry so Sam would have enough to eat when John's hunting trips lasted longer than he had planned.

Dean wore three shirts and insisted he wasn't cold at all when Sam hit a growth spurt and his coat didn't fit any more.

Dean had been pushed off the bed more times than any of them could count because even when each boy had his own bed, Sam had slept with Dean more often than not until he was in high school.

Dean bought Sam his first beer the first time Sam got his heart broken.

Dean was more Sam's parent than John had ever been.

Dean had simply accepted it all, and never once told John to take care of his own son, so Dean could be a kid.

John's heart ached for his younger son, for the words he shouldn't have said and the dreams he shouldn't have discouraged and how he had never let himself bond with Sam the way he had with Dean because he had always feared that one day he would lose Sam to the Yellow Eyed Demon too and how much he missed the lanky, floppy haired kid who cleaned up after the three of them and snored louder than a train and liked bananas instead of jelly on his peanut butter sandwiches.

But it hurt even more for his older son, for the boy who never asked for anything for himself, who had lost the one person in the world he loved.

Dean came back two hours later, face blotchy and eyes red. He didn't speak; he just sat down at the table and started poring through a handful of newspapers he'd brought back.

Hours passed in silence with Dean reading and John drinking. Lunchtime came and went without acknowledgement from either Winchester. The shadows on the floor lengthened, and the light through the thin curtains began to fade.

The next thing John knew, he woke up on the couch, empty bottle of bourbon clutched to his chest, as the sun dipped below the horizon.

He stumbled to the bathroom, and on his way back, stuck his head in the boys' room. He still called it the boys' room, because if he called it Dean's room it meant Sammy was really gone.

The sheets were stripped off both beds and Dean's duffle was missing.

John leaned against the wall and slowly slid to the floor.

He had always known it would come to this.

He always meant well. He wanted Sammy to be protected, and Dean was the only one he really trusted to do it. But in pushing his sons to bond to one another, he had created an attachment so secure that John was pushed out.

There had never been any doubt. When the time came that Dean felt he had to choose between his father and his brother, John had known he would pick Sammy.

Which meant John was alone. He had driven his sons away, his wife was dead, and he was honestly no closer to avenging her death than he had been the day he left Lawrence with everything he owned packed in the trunk of the Impala and two little boys asleep in the backseat.

Sam just wanted to go to school. Dean just wanted a family.

He had robbed them both of the lives they should have had.

He had always told them it was temporary.

They were just hunting until they found Yellow Eyes.

Eighteen years later, John was still hunting Yellow Eyes.

But now he was alone.

John staggered back to the kitchen.

There was a single piece of paper in the center of the table. Dean's goodbye note.

John couldn't bring himself to read it. The accusations on the paper couldn't be any worse than the ones in his own head.

He found another bottle of bourbon in the bottom left cabinet, and the pain pills leftover from Dean's broken ankle in the medicine box.

He drunkenly weaved his way back to the couch, sat down, poured the twelve pills into his mouth, and washed them down with several swigs of bourbon.

He cried, knowing that no one would ever know. He thought about finding a pen and paper, and leaving a note telling the boys that he loved them, but he figured they would know.

When they realized he was out of their lives for good, they would know he loved them enough to let them go.

He had taught his sons well. They could survive without him. Hell, the past couple years, with Dean's broken ankle and that cut that had nearly bled out and Sammy's broken shoulder and collarbone, they would have been better off without John.

He laid his head against the back of the couch, darkness creeping around the edges of his vision and a pleasant numbness seeping through his muscles.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard a crash, and Dean shouting "Dad!" but it must have been a dream.

Dean was gone.

But the Dean in his dreams was there, his hand searching for John's pulse, frantically shouting to his father to wake up. It was nice that Dream Dean cared enough to see John off, so he didn't tell his son to leave.

Somewhere in the vague distance there were sirens and someone shouting about Narcon and D5W and bright lights.

John had always imagined going to hell was dark and hot and lonely, and that going to heaven was light and peace and softness.

This was neither, so he was rather confused, until the darkness overtook him, with one last shout from his older son.

He woke slowly, realizing that he was in neither heaven nor hell, but a hospital, judging from the beeping and the rhythmic hum of the oxygen compressor and the unmistakable smell of pungent disinfectant.

He opened his eyes, wincing at the light, although experience told him that the room was dimmed to less than half its normal brightness.

"Dad?" Dean asked hopefully.

"Why did you come back?" John rasped, realizing that tubes must have been down his throat for it to be so sore. "Did you forget something?"

"What?" Dean frowned in confusion.

"You left." John squinted, trying to bring his son into focus. "You went to Sammy. Why did you come back?"

"What are you talking about?" Dean shook his head. "I went to the laundry mat. I left you a note."

"Just say it, dammit." John grumbled.

"Say what?" Dean still looked confused. And frightened. And more like a little boy than John had seen in years.

"Scream at me!" John shouted. "Tell me you hate me! Tell me it's all my fault that Sammy's gone!"

"It's okay, Dad." Dean shook his head sadly. "We'll be fine."

"Just shut up!" John roared. "It's _not_ okay!"

Dean stared at his father, wide eyed, as if unsure what to do or say.

"You always try to fix it." John scoffed. "You're always going to fix things for Sam and me. Well, this one you can't fix. I want you to go back to school. You're too damn smart. You shouldn't have quit. Watch out for Sammy. And tell him I'm sorry."

Dean shook his head. "No, Dad. You're not going to do this. Sammy left me. You can't leave me too." He begged.

Dean was crying.

John hadn't seen Dean cry since he was six.

.

"I'm letting you go." John tried to assure his son. "I'm letting you go to Sammy. I'll do it right this time. I'll put the .45 in my mouth. I should have done that the first time but I was drunk enough I was afraid I would miss."

"But I need you too, Dad." Dean pleaded. "You can't do this. I need you and Sammy needs you."

"Sammy doesn't need me." John answered. "You've raised him well. He's gonna be fine."

"No, Dad!" Dean begged. "I won't leave you. We'll hunt together, just the two of us. We'll be fine. We won't have to worry about Sammy being home alone, or getting him back for school. We'll find that yellow eyed son of a bitch and we'll take him out. Sammy just needs some time, but he'll come home eventually. I know he will. We'll be a family again. I promise."

"No." John shook his head.

"Please, Dad." Dean continued. "I'll call Sam and he'll come back. I know he will."

"He would come for you." John replied sadly. "He'd come if you asked him to. But he wouldn't come back for me. I've lost him."

"You've still got me." Dean promised. "You've still got me and I won't leave you. It'll be okay, Dad. But please, promise me you won't try to leave me again."

John stared at his son for a long moment.

Dean had always been the peacemaker.

Dean was always the one who promised everyone it would be okay, and had done everything in his power to make it so.

John couldn't give up on him now.

"I'll make that promise on one condition." John warned. "You swear to me on your brother's life you will never tell him about this."

"Yes sir." Dean nodded.


End file.
